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‘Merida!’
She turned and smiled at the sound of her name. At least Jobe seemed pleased to see her.
He made his way rather slowly down the stairs, and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
‘Tell me, Jobe,’ Merida said, and smiled. ‘Do these photos get taken down when you have a new wife in residence?’
Jobe laughed. ‘Nope—she’s the boys’ mother.’
‘Boys?’ Merida raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘They always will be boys to me. You just wait till you have your own.’
Merida smiled. She thought of her own parents, barely in touch, and doubted there wereanyfamily pictures of her own childhood lining their walls.
‘You’re a good dad, Jobe.’
‘I wanted to be.’
It was an odd answer, and she heard his pensive tone, but now he was walking ahead of her and into the drawing room.
Merida was interviewed as the photographer did some test shots.
‘Merida, you were working at a gallery when you and Ethan met?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled.
‘And did Ethan drop in often?’
‘He did.’ She smiled again. ‘There was a gorgeous amulet display, owned by Sheikh Prince Khalid...’
Merida was faultless in her responses, Ethan thought. And when they did a couple of headshots of her he watched her laugh and smile. She was just so relaxed and at ease with it all.
Ethan missed the old them.
And not just the sex.
While their time together before the news of the baby had been short-lived, he missed the walking through the city, the coffee and the sharing.
And in that brief time just after their marriage—well, he’d felt as if he might take on the world.
Now, from where he stood, Merida had got what she wanted. The marriage was consummated, her duty was done and now they awaited the baby, followed by an amicable divorce.
The photos took for ever, but finally it was over. Abe and Candice were gone before the photographer’s bags were even packed, and it was Ethan who saw then off.
The interviewer was still gushing. ‘We’d love to come and see your home when the renovations are complete—and of course once the baby arrives...’
Ethan said nothing. He was going along with it for now, but there was no way he was having them in his home. No way he would subject his child...
His child.
Theirchild.
He closed the door and as he did so the photos lining the walls seemed to taunt him.
God, he loathed being here, because the creeping of the past tightened like a vine.
He remembered now the summons to perfection. His nails being cut, the clip-clip-clip and the rake of a comb through his hair.
